The Other F-Word (21 page)

“That must have been very hard.”

“It was. Bring me your tools.”

“What?”

“Your ceiling fan’s wobbly. I want to fix it, but I need your tools.”

“That’s okay, Damien. I have a whole list of repairs from the realtor like that. My son-in-laws are coming over this weekend.”

He turned, smiling at me—a sad smile with no enthusiasm or amusement. Clearly, he wanted to change the subject. Sometimes a person’s sorrow was so strong it became tangible, like a taste. Damien’s sorrow was like a feast. “They’re amateurs. I’m a professional. Let me fix it. I want to.”

“Damien—”

“Jessie, please don’t ask me. I’m sorry, but all I really want to do is fix this damn ceiling fan and anything else that’s broken. Can we just do that?”

I walked to the garage to fetch the few tools I had.

When I handed him my toolbox, he chuckled. “You expect me to use a pink screwdriver?”

“Would you rather use the pink hammer?” I asked, hoping my own smile was reassuring.

He took off his jacket and undid his tie before laying them on the couch. Damien moved the stepstool I’d been using to under the ceiling fan. He was tall enough that it was all he needed. I would have had to borrow a ladder. Of course, I had no idea how to fix it either. A smattering of dust flew off the blade onto his crisp white shirt.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay. They’re always the dustiest things in a house.”

I went to get a rag for him. “You can put this over your shoulder—” I halted in my tracks. The man had taken his shirt off. The dim lighting cast a spotlight glow on his defined chest. Wow…he was fine. And he was mine. “Oh…yeah, you could do that too.”

“You okay, Jessie?”

I poured myself more wine then swallowed it down. “This is the best porn in the world,” I said.

“Don’t tell me this is turning you on?”

“It’s a total aphrodisiac.” There was one thing that could make it better. I went to the stereo and found Toby Keith’s
I Wanna Talk About Me
. There was nothing like Toby’s deep voice, plus it was my way of letting him know I accepted his change of subject. I slumped down on the couch to resume my porn-watching.

“There’s my country loving girl,” he said, tightening the screw. His arm flexed with every movement.

I pulled off the ridiculous bandana and ran my fingers through my hair. “I could watch you all day.”

“You should see me do something really difficult like re-roof your house, or tile your bathroom.”

“Stop talking dirty to me.”

He hopped off the stool then walked over to turn on the fan. “All fixed. Nice and smooth.”

I was glad for the breeze provided by the spinning blades because I needed to cool down.

“What else you got for me?”

I stifled my laugh. “I have a leaky pipe.”

He tilted his head. “Are you trying to tell me you’re wet?”

“Damien, get your mind out of the gutter. I really do have a leaky pipe under the kitchen sink.”

“Let’s fix it then.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll hire a plumber.”

“You think I’m going to take a chance on another man turning you on? I just tightened a few screws and you’re ready to hump my leg.”

“Most plumbers don’t look like you.”

He walked over to the stereo. He flipped through my iPod. The White Stripes and the unmistakable and unique beat of
Seven Nation Army
came on.

“And there’s my Detroit boy.”

He whistled. “You impress me. That’s right, Jack White is from Detroit.”

“The song makes me want to go to Wichita.”

“As romantic as that sounds, we have to tackle the kitchen sink first.”

I followed him, pouting the entire time.

After the kitchen sink, much to my disappointment, he continued to make small repairs and take note of bigger ones. The man was doing a home inspection, and it was completely unfair, because he was shirtless and I was breathless.

“I think you should fix the broken headboard on my bed.”

“I think you’re trying to get me in your bedroom.”

I was on my fifth glass of wine—drunk, turned on and pissed off. He was toying with me, walking around shirtless, fixing everything with that screwdriver hanging out of his back pocket. When he turned on Beck’s
I Won’t Be Long
, it confirmed all my suspicions.

Well…two could play at this game. I unbuttoned my shirt, revealing the white tank top underneath and the outline of my cherry red bra beneath the thin material. I cleared my throat as he finished fixing the broken screen in the living room window.

He did a double take.

“What? I was hot,” I said innocently.

“I see that,” he said. “Show me your bedroom.”

Score.

He looked around at the image of minimalism that was my bedroom. “How come this room isn’t painted?”

“I never got around to it, I guess.”

“I think we should paint it.”

“You know I’m selling the house, right?”

“Yes, but it’ll be a selling feature. I like this house. It’s very you.”

“What, bohemian?”

“That term went out decades ago, Jessie.” He walked over to the iron headboard, moving it back and forth. “You have a screw loose.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

He managed to lift it right from the frame. “Actually, all your screws are stripped. How’d you manage that? Sounds like some freaky sex.” He carried the awkward, heavy object with ease then leaned it against a far wall.

“It’s not what you think. My kids used my bed as a trampoline for many years.”

“More photos,” he said, gesturing to the box on the floor.

“I found the box in the attic. I’m organizing them.”

He took a photo from the top, studying it.

I came behind him, my eyes growing wide with embarrassment. “You can’t see that one.” I tried to snatch it from him, but he was faster.

“Too late. Damn baby…you look so hot in this.”

“You’re turned on by this?” I asked, shaking my head. The photo had been taken in the mid-eighties…teased hair, hoop earrings, denim skirt and of course, long knit leg warmers.

“The leg warmers are almost as hot as the boots, Jessie.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Hey, you were the one wearing it. I’m just giving you my honest opinion. Yeah, it’s definitely hot. You’re hot.” He walked, and I took a step back, matching his advance with my retreat.

I felt the edge of the bed and fell onto it.

“I need to get the right screws for your headboard.” He leant down, caressing my legs. “In the meantime, I want to use the one tool I did bring with me.”

“Oh, thank God,” I said, tugging on his silky hair.

He unbuttoned my jeans then pulled them off in one swift movement, before undoing his. I went to remove my tank top, but he stopped me, pushing his mouth onto mine until I was on my back.

“Let’s take our time,” he whispered against my lips.

He pushed my shoulders back until I was lying flat. He lifted my top, exposing my waist. His fingers trailed across my skin, causing a shiver, followed by his lips and tongue, resulting in a heat wave.

“Damien, please.”

“Let me look at you first. I love looking at you.” He stroked my hair, moving his mouth to my neck. “You think I go slow because I don’t want you? It’s because I want you so much, I don’t want it to end.”

I arched my back, as he rubbed his face against my bra.

“So soft.”

“It’s padded.”

He laughed, and the hearty sound became a deep growl as he stared at my heaving breasts. He bit down on the fabric, pulling it off me, revealing my nipple. Then his mouth was on it. I moaned loudly, encouraged by his precise touch.

He trailed kisses down my chest before lifting my tank off and unhooking my bra. Then he moved down my body, touching and kissing.

“What’s this from?” He rubbed the long, jagged scar on my right leg.

“I fell off a motorcycle. We weren’t going very fast, but I tore my leg up.”

He kissed the area as he hooked his thumbs into my panties and pulled them down. “That must have hurt.”

“Not anymore.”

He moved up my body stopping at my waist. “And this?”

“C-section,” I said.

He nodded, pressing his lips to the area. “And this one?” His finger stroked the scar on the back of my scalp.

“I was hit by a car in the library parking lot. That’s where the surgeons opened my head to monitor for a subdural hematoma. They used it to relieve my brain swelling.”

He swallowed hard. “Jesus. When was this?”

“A few months after we first met.”

He looked at me with such concern that I wished I’d never brought it up.

“I’m fine, Damien. It was a full recovery.”

He was quiet for a while, staring down at me. “I wish you would have called me, Jessie. After we danced like you promised.”

“Why?”

“I would have been there for you.” His voice was a tight, choked whisper and it surprised me.

“I broke my phone and lost your number. Maybe that was fate too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Maybe we weren’t ready for each other.”

“Maybe. What happened to the person who hurt you? The one driving?”

I hadn’t expected that question. “He pled guilty and is in jail.”

Damien’s eyes glassed over and his hands clenched. His emotions seemed to be a mix of anger and agony. I kissed him for a long time, trying to distract him from the turbulence of my admission.

“I’m fine. My body is a train wreck but everything works.”

“Your body is sexy as hell, and I think this is beautiful,” he said, rubbing his finger against the scar, and kissing my forehead.

“You think my scars are beautiful? Maybe those brownies did have something magical in them after all.”

His eyes held mine in a deep trance. “They’re not scars. They’re life marks. And yes, I think they’re beautiful because they are a part of you.” He ran a finger against the surgical incision on my head. “Especially this one, because it saved your life.”

Then he covered my body with his and his kisses became faster and more urgent. He rolled us over so I was on top of him. I situated myself, straddling him, every inch of his length filling me as I slid down his shaft. I moved, trying to find purchase, but my hands kept searching for that headboard that wasn’t there. He grabbed my wrists and brought them down to his chest. He jerked into me. I moaned out from the pleasure as he continued to thrust. I met him there, my nails biting into his skin.

He sat up, pulling my hair back and running his lips down my neck as I pushed myself up. I pressed against his chest, moving his face away because I needed to feel his lips, taste his salty skin against my tongue, look into his golden-green eyes. I came undone before I’d had my fill of him. The way Damien made love to me was not normal—there was something fierce in it. Some longing, some need that we both had, but I could not articulate it.

This is what it meant to have sex with the person you loved. When the mind and spirit were so fully vested, the body had no choice but to follow the same course.

He held me there, embracing me with his strong arms—our hearts beating rhythmically in tune with each other. He kissed one side of my face, running his finger down the other.

“You don’t have any scars,” I whispered with my head on his shoulder.

“They exist. They’re just not visible. You make them better. You heal me, Jessie.”

Chapter Eighteen

Our night of fixing and fucking had been a turn on for both of us. In fact, true to his word, Damien insisted we go to the hardware store the next day. I wasn’t going to let him make me all hot again without bringing my A game. His jaw dropped when he saw me and I knew the off–the-shoulder sweatshirt, tight black leggings and legwarmers had hit their mark.

“You’re not playing nice. How do you expect me to concentrate?” he asked as we walked into the huge home improvement store. In truth, he’d outdone me, wearing old jeans with paint stains…his painting jeans, he said, and a Sex Pistols T-shirt.

I’d never been to a place like this. It smelt like sawdust and nails, but the sight of Damien taking a deep breath and smiling widely was incredibly adorable.

“I miss this place. I used to come here all the time.” He took my hand and led me through the aisles, not even checking the signs. He leant down, whispering against my ear, “You, dressed like that, in one of my favourite places, well…it’s making me crazy hard right now.”

I giggled against his chest. “Why are we in this aisle? We need paint.”

“You need a new hot water heater, remember? We should get it while we’re here.”

It was on the top of my to-do list, since both the realtor and Damien had said it was a necessary repair. Mine worked, but it took forever to get hot water. Damien said it was a seam leak. I didn’t know what that meant, but like everything he said, I thought it had a sexual undertone.

A friendly looking man in an orange smock approached us. “Can I help you?”

“Thanks, but I know exactly what we’re looking for,” Damien replied.

“Are you sure? There are a lot of options.”

“I got this,” he said with complete self-assurance.

He turned his attention back to me once the man left.

“I know I need one, and I’ve already called a few guys up about it so we don’t have to worry about it today.”

He grasped my hips and positioned me in front of the large white tanks that all looked the same. “You’re calling other men to do the things I can do for you? That’s my job, sweetheart.”

“What do you do in that huge apartment of yours when something breaks, or in one of your properties?”

“I call a maintenance man.”

“Yes, you have guys that do this, so do I. I’m sure you have properties to acquire and sell. I don’t expect you to replace my hot water tank, although I love the gesture.”

“Jessie, the point is, why call a guy when your guy can do it? I miss this stuff. I want to do it for you. Let me.” He wrapped his arms around me. Damien had this need to take care of me, and I had this desire to let him, so it worked out well.

I leant back against his chest. “Okay. Thank you, but let’s hurry up. We have a lot to do today, and I want to get you in my bedroom again.”